The Morning After The Night Before
by randomsquare
Summary: Captain Swan AU. Emma Swan has been sharing her office with the irrepressible Killian Jones for three years. But when she wakes up the morning after the staff Christmas Party in Killian Jones's bed, will she die of humiliation immediately, or will it be a prolonged death? And who is trying to break in?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: For lenfaz,**

 **Well, this isn't Part Two of 'I Am Disappeared' or the next installment of 'Harsh Realms', but it is a little something I promised you. A Liam thing.**  
 **I hope you enjoy.**

* * *

Emma Swan had done some pretty stupid things in her life. Like the time she'd had an affair with a married man. Or the time she thought she'd give CrossFit a try. But very few things in her life had been quite as stupid as waking up the morning after the Staff Christmas Party in a bed beside none other than Killian Jones.

Killian Jones. The guy she'd shared an office with for three years. The guy who was a sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen, with his steady stream of innuendos and suggestive eyebrow raises. The guy who held the office record for the number of pencils he could get to stick to the ceiling, just by throwing them. The guy who she'd split her peanut butter and jelly with every work day for three years, because he never bothered to pack his own. _That_ Killian Jones.

"Oh god." Emma sat up, taking stock of the situation. " _Oh my god._ Did we…?" She listed off the inventory. Clothes. _Check_. At least, she seemed to be wearing a shirt of some kind. Underwear. _Check_. _Oh thank god._ Muscled arm still draped over her stomach? _Check_.

"Jones," she whispered, lifting his arm off her gingerly. He made an unintelligible groan, burying his face further into his pillow. "Jones!" She nudged his shoulder. "Wake up already!"

His grip on his pillow tightened, but he rolled over onto his side, letting a single blue eye pop open. "Let the record state, Swan," His voice was thick with sleep, his accent more pronounced than normal, "I resent the implication that if we shared a night of passion, you would not only forget it, but that you would regret it."

It was a remarkably cogent statement for a man who still seemed to be mostly asleep.

"So we… didn't…?" Emma wanted to clarify. The presence of underwear was a promising sign, but her memory of the evening before still seemed to be clouded in a tequila-induced haze.

"Let me put your mind at ease," he said, propping himself up with an elbow so he was properly facing her. He still looked sleep rumpled, but both eyes were open now, and gaining back their usual intelligence fast. "Alas, we did not make passionate love to one another. I assure you, it would not be an experience you would soon forget." Cue the eyebrow waggle. Emma swatted his bare shoulder, because she could, and because it put things on more familiar ground.

"And what exactly _do_ you remember?" Emma prodded, eyes scanning the room for clues on the night's misadventures.

"Well, I remember the tequila slammers. _Vaguely._ And some bloody awful margaritas." Their office Christmas Party had taken place in a Mexican place downtown. Because nothing said Christmas like cheesy sombreros and half price Coronas.

"Anything _not_ beverage related?" Emma snapped, exasperated.

"Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Swan," He paused, letting a note of seriousness creep into his tone, "But I do believe we may have made out a little. Or a lot, as the case may be."

 _Shit_.

That explained why her lips felt bruised. And yet, considering the clinch she'd found them in upon waking, it was maybe not the biggest surprise of the morning.

She was never drinking tequila again.

"And I'm in your bed _because_?" The million dollar question.

"We split a cab. It turns out you and I actually live quite close. And in said cab, you happened to unleash a torrent of truly impressive stomach pyrotechnics, and for some reason, the cabbie got quite irate and kicked us out." He shrugged. "I'm afraid I wasn't really able to discern your exact address from you at that stage, with all the slurring, so I brought you here, gave you a lovely new shirt to wear, and here we are."

She was never drinking tequila again.

"And the snuggling?" She barely dared to ask.

"Oh, that comes free," he grinned, sweeping his mess of dark hair off his forehead. It was a good look on him, and Emma hated him a little for it. She usually had three feet and a desk between them to keep her from doing anything stupid where he was concerned. Now there was just a matter of inches, and she could feel the heat of him radiating through the cotton sheet.

"Right," she said, pulling away quickly to the edge of her side of the bed. "Well, I need coffee before I can even hope to process all of this humiliation. _Please_ tell me you have a coffee maker?" Was that too much to hope for a man who couldn't even assemble a sandwich?

"I have a coffee maker, lass." Emma breathed an instant sigh of relief. "Right by the toaster. If you get it started, I can have a shower and then maybe we could go for breakfast. Granny's French toast?" There was a hopeful current to his words, that made her want to run a mile. And the desire to just flee the scene of the crime was already pretty damn strong. But Granny's was a neighborhood institution. And her French toast… well, it was worth the walk of shame.

"Extra syrup?" Emma asked hopefully.

Killian just smirked, rolling over to his side of the bed and staggering to his feet, revealing that he had in fact been mercifully wearing sweatpants the whole time. His actions also revealed a whole lot of ab definition that Emma had not been quite prepared for, her mouth dropping open despite herself. "Just get the coffee on, Swan," he called, as he made his way to the bathroom.

Shutting her mouth, Emma didn't have to be told twice.

For a guy she had pegged as a slovenly bachelor, Emma couldn't deny that Killian's kitchen was in better shape than hers was. He didn't have any dirty dishes lying in the sink like she did, and he had a lot more gadgets, all shiny on the marble counter tops. Including one of those new fandangled Keurig machines. A step up from her usual drip coffee, she had to admit. But one which betrayed Killian as a serious coffee fiend, and probably not someone who was all that fussed about the implications of single-use pods. _Clearly_ he didn't read the same articles she did.

But before she could think too much on her accidental bed mate's contributions to landfills, she heard a scratching at the door. Turning around, she waited, and after a pause, the scratching continued. Too haphazard to be someone fumbling with a key.

 _Someone was trying to pick the lock._

Looking around for something to use as suitable weapon against an intruder, Emma eventually spotted a baseball bat propped up against the couch. Taking it in hand, she raised it to her shoulder just in time for the lock to pop open, and a man to appear in the open doorway.

"Who are you!?" Emma demanded, pleased to see the man practically trip over himself as he took in her stance.

"Bloody hell!" He raised both of his arms in front of him in a peaceful cooperation kind of way. "Kill! Care to explain why there's a blonde goddess standing in your kitchen holding a baseball bat with deadly intent!?" the man shouted out with a hint of panic, letting his voice carry across the apartment.

At the sound of his voice, Emma immediately loosened her stance, letting the bat fall limply to her side. He clearly wasn't a stranger. And with that accent, not just any not-stranger.

"Oh god, you're one of _them_ , aren't you?" Emma groaned, searching the room in vain for something to cover up her bare legs, settling for stretching the hem of the sweatshirt as far down as she could as she stepped back to keep Killian's breakfast bar between them.

"One of _whom_ , lass?" Now that he'd apparently realized his life wasn't in immediate danger, he looked like he was prepared to be mildly offended, his chest puffing out of its own accord. God, he really was just like him.

"A Jones," Emma replied flatly. "With _that_ eyebrow, and _that_ accent, you've got to be the brother."

Killian had a picture on his nightstand of the two of them as boys, arms wrapped around each other's shoulders in front of some drizzly seaside vista. It had been one of the first things she'd seen when she'd woken up. One of those things that had made it immediately clear she was behind enemy lines. The boy in the photograph couldn't have been more than fourteen, with a mop of curly hair, lighter than his brothers. It was a far cry from the grown man standing before her with his close cropped hair and stubble, but the mischievous grin he wore was identical.

"Captain Liam Jones, at your service." He actually swept into a small bow, and Emma wondered if dramatic flair was another thing that just ran in the family. "And who might I have the pleasure of nearly being brained by this morning?" She'd have to add an excessive vocabulary to the list of family traits.  
She tugged again at the hem of her… Killian's… shirt, wishing she'd thought to replace her jeans before searching out coffee.

"Emma."

She didn't miss the way his whole demeanour changed at her name, his eyes lighting up and his back straightening, gaze roaming her up and down, considering her in a whole new light. " _You're_ Emma Swan? _The_ Emma Swan?"

 _Well, well, well._ Wasn't _that_ interesting?

"You've… heard of me?" Emma ventured, uncertainly.

"Let's just say," he began in a conspiratorial tone, "You might have come up once or twice." His eyes were practically twinkling with glee. Emma opened her mouth to question him further when they were interrupted by the tell-tale groan of Killian's footsteps making their way down the hall.

"Lass, what was all that shouting before? Did you have the telev…LIAM!?" He'd stopped dead in his tracks, the towel he was using to dry his hair falling to the floor in a damp heap, forgotten.

"Greetings, little brother."

"You're…" Killian was still rooted to the spot, eyes wide as saucers, traveling from his brother, to Emma, and back. "You're here. Why are you _here_?"

"Is that any way to say hello to your big brother after he's flown all the way across the Atlantic to see you?" Liam grinned, taking the necessary few steps to envelop his younger brother into a bear hug, which after a period of recovery, Killian returned.

"I'm sorry, Liam," he said, stepping away. "I _am_ glad to see you. But… I wasn't expecting…"

" _Clearly_ ," Liam chortled, looking from the newly showered Killian back to Emma, who was still only clad in a sweatshirt. "Had I known I was _interrupting_ …"

"You weren't!" Both Emma and Killian replied in unison, their eyes locking across the room as the ridiculousness of the situation settled between them.

"Well, seeing as this lovely lass is in _your_ kitchen, wearing _your_ jumper and precious else, you can see how one might make that innocent mistake." He was having far too much fun at their expense. Emma pulled her hem down self-consciously, wondering how soon she could excuse herself to find some pants.

"Ah," Killian reached a hand to scratch behind one of his ears, "Emma, this is my brother, Liam. Bit of a nosy prick, if you hadn't gathered. And Liam, this is Emma." Apparently she needed no further description.

"Yes, we've already become acquainted," The grin was stretched wide across Liam's face. "I forgot my spare key and decided to pop the lock, and the lovely lass nearly took my head off with your baseball bat."

"She did?" Killian's head snapped up. He looked almost… proud?

"Violent sort, these Americans. Take their household security rather seriously," Liam noted, but he winked in Emma's direction.

And then all three of them were startled by the sudden beep of the Keurig, two steaming cups of coffee ready and waiting.

"So…" Emma struggled to filled the awkward silence. "Coffee, anyone?"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Truth be told, I am a bit of a grinch, and Christmas isn't really my favourite time of year. Case in point, it's 4:38am on Christmas morning, and I am writing this, knowing that I am going to be spending the rest of the day alone with naught but a bottle of Southern Comfort and a selection tray of Ferrero Rocher for company.**

 **Be that as it may, I have to acknowledge that perhaps the best part of this year for me has been writing for this fandom. I've gotten a real sense of accomplishment from actually finishing stories, and receiving feedback and encouragement from you has meant the world to me. So, as well as my heartfelt thanks, here is a little something for Christmas. If Christmas isn't your thing, then feel free to simply take it as a suspiciously timed gift...**

 **Part Two - The Christmas Party  
**

Twelve hours previous...

...

...

It had all started with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

...

In theory, Killian Jones knew that the economy was a shambles. He wasn't daft. And yet, for some reason, on finally making the move to America, cashing in on the small miracle of his mother's ancestry, he'd assumed that his natural charm and five years in Her Majesty's Navy might help him get a leg up into some sort of career. He was... mistaken.

After six months eating ramen noodles in a squalid little flat in a neighbourhood of Boston that made Brixton look like Knightsbridge in comparison, getting rather a lot of form rejection emails, he finally found a steady paycheck... doing data entry.

It was mind numbing work. The company he worked for was a soulless marketing firm, selling the worst of American excess to gullible consumers, and yet his cubicle was barely wide enough to accommodate his chair. But his workstation did have one redeeming quality. The view.

Because, against all odds, in all the soul-sucking offices in all the world, Killian Jones spent eight hours a day less than three feet away from the most gorgeous creature on god's green Earth.

He'd noticed her on the very first day. How could he not, with all of that glossy blonde hair cascading over her chair shining under fluorescent lights, her citrus perfume wafting his way with every lazy oscillation of the overhead fan? She was, in a word, beautiful. He'd been captivated by the first, though wary. The rest of his office mates seemed to have long resigned themselves to their everyday drudgery, characterized by glazed expressions and dull eyes. He suspected that the guy three desks down still retained some semblance of his soul, if only because he would occasionally hear a snippet of David Bowie filtered through a pair of cheap headphones.

But Emma? That was her name. Emma Swan. It said so right on the laminated slip that was velcro-ed to the partition which utterly failed to obscure her dazzling profile from view. The velcro was a nice touch. It really sold that y _ou're utterly replaceable_ feeling. He admitted, he watched her rather carefully on that first day, looking for signs of life. Anything that might indicate that she was still alive underneath that polished robotic facade, with her rather impressive typing speed.

It wasn't until lunch, when he'd made that awkward shuffle into that windowless break room that he'd really understood how fucked he really was. He'd seen her, of course, sitting across from him, half a sandwich in one hand, a rather weighty novel held open in the other. Seeing as his first paycheck hadn't come in yet, he'd neglected to pack a lunch, in the hopes the savings might net him enough for a pizza after work. And Emma Swan noticed.

He'd been so busy fumbling with his phone, trying to appear nonchalant and completely indifferent to the mouthwatering aromas of his colleague's meals, that when he noticed the sandwich half sitting in front of him on a crinkled square of aluminum foil, he almost thought he'd imagined the sleeve of her jumper snaking back across to her side of the table. She hadn't said a word. She still seemed perfectly occupied with her book. But when Killian pulled the offering towards him at last, he saw her quickly glance up from the page, the trace of a hidden smile reflected in her entrancing green eyes.

He hadn't packed a lunch since.

For nearly three years, five days a week, Emma Swan had given up half of her sandwich to him. Once the silence had been finally broken, an irresistible comment on the plaster cast that encased Killian's wrist for five weeks that spring (a rollerblading attempt gone awry), there had even been something of a rapport. Off-colour jokes. Seducing their fellow data entry robots into competitive feats achievable with the bare minimum of stationery supplies; it turned out there were some actual people hiding under those worker bee shells after all. Even if it took circumstances requiring creative use of a stapler to bring it out in them. After a while, the sandwiches would even be accompanied by Oreos. A granola bar. Sometimes they even branched out and ordered in grilled cheese from a greasy spoon down the street.

And in all that time he discovered that Emma Swan was much more than the beautiful blonde whose citrus scent lingered deliciously in his workspace. She was quick-witted, with a real talent for mischief. No one could execute an office prank quite like Emma. You'd never even see her leave her desk. And she was kind. The sandwiches had been proof enough of that, but he'd seen her comfort a woman they worked with, after she'd endured a rather brutal dressing down by their line manager after one too many typos left unchecked. She woman had been practically shaking in her seat, choking back tears, when Emma had coaxed her back to life with a Snickers bar and a few choice jabs at the unsavory appetites of the line manager in question.

Another thing he had discovered about Emma Swan. She was attached.

To some bloody wanker named Walsh who owned an antique furniture store in Cambridge, catering to the discerning tenured professor. He'd met the man a handful of times at company events, and he'd always seemed so frightfully boring. Certainly no true match for a woman who could unpick a locked filing cabinet in under twenty seconds with a paperclip. It was true, Killian may have been set against him by principle, but he dared anyone to rejoice in a twenty minute conversation debating the merits of gentrification in Charlestown. To be frank, he was a bloody ponce. And in a room full of marketing types, that was saying something.

Or at least, she _had_ been attached.

Word around the water cooler was she'd chucked him, back before Halloween. He'd certainly noticed a change in her. She seemed to spend less time during their lunches frowning at her phone, or drifting off into wordless thought. She laughed harder at his stupid innuendos. Smiled wider when a new office record was broken during that week's Stationery Olympics.

And tonight was the office Christmas Party, so generously put on by the upper management in a rather seedy Mexican place a few blocks over that had less than stellar reviews on Yelp. Maybe it wasn't the _ideal_ venue, but after three years of pining for Emma Swan, enough was enough.

He thought back to the text he'd received that morning from his brother back in London. Liam Jones found his younger brother's little crush, accidentally confessed last Christmas after one too many Cuba Libres, to be the most hilarious thing he'd ever heard. So naturally, once his laughter had subsided, he appointed himself Killian's wingman, not letting a little thing like the North Atlantic Ocean get in the way of his meddling.

 _ **A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets**_ , the text had read. _ **  
**_

Killian hadn't had enough coffee at the time to process the advice, but now, standing in front of the mirror in the rather unimpressive men's room of La Fiesta Tequileri & Taco Bar, his hands clutched on either side of the chipped enamel sink, he repeated it under his breath like a mantra. It was true, she might reject him. Maybe she and her social climbing beau were still an item after all. Maybe she just flat out didn't see him that way. Maybe mentioning anything would completely obliterate three years of built up trust and affection, and Killian would be out on his arse, looking for his next soulless corporate gig just to get away from the awkwardness.

Those were all very real possibilities. But Liam had a point. To borrow a rather American metaphor, if he didn't even put his hat into the ring, how could he realistically expect Emma to pick him?

So yes. He'd do it. He'd tell Emma how he felt.

Decided at last, he spent a couple minutes more psyching himself up, wishing he had rather more cheap tequila in his system than he did. A rather fortuitous wish really, for when he finally emerged from the rest room, who sat at his recently vacated bar stool, holding the makings of a tequila slammer out to him, but Emma bloody Swan?

"Ready, Jones?" She challenged, letting her grin widen as he took the offered glass, his fingers brushing hers in a way that made all of the nerve endings on his arm sit up and take notice.

"When you are, Swan," he replied with a short incline of the head, gaze locked on hers in answer to her challenge. With a whispered count to three, they each covered the tops of their glasses and slammed them against the bar, tipping their heads back in unison to capture every frothy mouthful as their beverages threatened to spill over. Killian made a bit of a mess of it, feeling a rush of bubbles slide down the corners of his mouth, ensuring his signature scruff would be sticky with 7-Up, despite his best efforts to contain the mess with his sleeve.

Emma Swan had no such problems, draining her glass with a practiced grace, and placing it back down onto the bar with a decisive thud, her eyes shining with her victory. _She was so fucking beautiful,_ he thought. And it was now or never. _  
_

He opened his mouth, hoping the right words would just sort of materialise, when Emma Swan grabbed him by the lapels of his leather jacket and pulled his lips to hers.

It was completely unexpected. It was _definitely_ not work venue appropriate. It was, in truth, a little sticky. And it was hands down the best kiss of Killian's life. It took him a moment to realise that he was, in fact, not dreaming, but once he copped on, he reciprocated with equal enthusiasm. Three years of pent up yearning for this woman unleashed in a single moment, as he snaked a hand around her waist to pull her even closer, her lips parting to grant him better access. The sour taste of tequila on her tongue mixed with the sweetness of soda was an intoxicating combination, and he knew that he'd never be able to think of her and not think of that taste again.

When they finally broke apart, the need for oxygen too urgent, he was wrecked. Ruined, in the best possible way.

"Lass..." he began, rather breathlessly, his forehead still resting on hers. "That was..."

"Probably the tequila," she said, pulling away slightly, and for a moment Killian stilled, the grin frozen on his lips. But Emma was still smiling. And though her cheeks were flushed, from either the kiss or the alcohol, or both, her lovely eyes still retained that familiar focus. It was the kind of determination he'd seen applied to spreadsheets as often as he had to her constructions of catapults from rubber bands and pencils. And now that determination was rounded on him, and the lips he now dragged his fingertips over, where they still tingled with her phantom touch. She knew what she was doing. She'd _meant_ to kiss him. Killian resisted the urge to punch the air in victory.

"We should get more, don't you think?" She said, turning around to hail the bartender over again.

"Just a moment, Swan," he said, grabbing her raised arm by the elbow and tugging her gently around to face him again. "You can't expect to just kiss a man like that, and not explain yourself."

He'd tried to keep his tone light, teasing even. But she furrowed her brow then, and if he was correct, he saw a flash of uncertainty cross her features.

"I don't know," she shrugged, looking around them for the first time, just in time to notice that they'd accrued something of an audience, most specifically the ladies from Accounts, who seemed to have frozen in place, margaritas halfway to their lips, unwilling to miss a second of the unfolding spectacle.

"Outside?" Killian offered quietly, scowling at the voyeurs. "There's a back door."

"Yeah," she pulled herself up from where she'd been leaning over the bar. "A little fresh air would be good."

Killian led the way, down the hallway past the restrooms and the door to the kitchen, from whence rapid-fire Spanish and delectable aromas emanated, out the screen door that led to the alley behind. It wasn't exactly where Killian would have pictured having this conversation, right beside an overflowing dumpster, the asphalt underfoot patterned with the abandoned cigarette stubs of a generation of restaurant workers. And yet, even by the neon light of the hotel opposite, she was captivating. And maybe a little nervous.

With some trepidation, he raised his hands up to trail up and down her arms, both in an attempt to be comforting, and also to keep her warm against the December chill. She hadn't brought her jacket outside with her, and he saw the goosebumps forming on the skin that wasn't covered by her thin sweater. To his relief, she didn't flinch from his touch. But she did seem confused.

"I honestly don't know why I kissed you," she began, gaze focused on her shoes, and Killian resisted the urge to curse internally, nodding for her to continue. "I was feeling good. It had been a while. And I guess I just... wanted... to?" she trailed off. She looked up to meet his eyes then, and she must have misinterpreted the intensity of his gaze, because she added. "But I can see it was stupid, so-"

He didn't let her finish, taking a swift step forward, hand curling around the back of her neck to kiss her again, letting his resolve show her that he hadn't found it stupid at all. The tension she'd been carrying in her shoulders since he'd dare ask the question melted away, and before he knew what had happened, they'd backed up against a brick wall, Killian's hands shooting out to brace himself either side of her head.

Too fast. It was too fast. One more step forward, and they'd be practically entwined. He would be able to feel almost every inch of her, warm against him. Which was not the worst idea in the world. And she didn't seem opposed, if the hands she had working his shirt out of his jeans at that precise moment were any indication, but it was too bloody soon.

With no small amount of effort, he broke the kiss, reaching down to still her roaming fingers by squeezing them in his own. "Easy, lass," he said with a breathless laugh, as her lips chased his as he pulled away. She pouted then, and he was sure it was the most adorable thing he'd ever seen. Certainly left all those cat videos Liam kept sending him for dust.

"It wasn't stupid," he said, tipping her chin up until their eyes met, willing her to see he was serious. "I'm just equal parts thanking my lucky stars, and wondering what the hell has just happened. An impulse, you said?"

"Yeah," Emma agreed, eyes drifting dangerously back to his lips, and then back up to meet his. "But a good one, right?"

It would have been so easy for him to just accept this for what it was. Some frenzied making out with a gorgeous woman. But it wasn't just that. This was also Emma Swan. He _knew_ her. And he also knew himself. If this was just going to be a one-time thing, best back out now, before he compromised himself more than he already had. As it was, he knew he was going to be dreaming about the taste of tequila slammers and the feel of warm hands on his skin for weeks. Months.

"Emma," he groaned, as she began massaging the hand that was still entwined with hers between her forefinger and her thumb. "Emma," he repeated, louder this time, trying to bring her back to herself. She sure didn't make it easy on him, but she did stop her ministrations. "Tell me if I have a chance in hell here. Not just a hot make out in an alley, or whatever leads on from that. An _actual_ chance."

She seemed to snap back into herself at his words, finally, the haze of lust receding from her eyes. A feral part of him delighted in putting it there. But an even greater part of him was glad to see it go, to see the Emma he knew staring back at him. Her face was set, serious, as she considered him, saying nothing.

He resisted the urge to prod her words along, detangling from her to lean against the brickwork beside her. No longer burdened by his eyes on her, she found the courage to open her mouth at last. "I think..." she began, almost shyly, "I think it wouldn't be the worst idea in the world?" There was uncertainty there, in the way she seemed to frame it as a question, rather than a definitive statement, but when she chanced a look at his reaction, Killian couldn't prevent the grin that was rapidly overtaking his face.

"Well then, lass," he said, grasping one of her hands in his, and raising it to his lips. "I'd say that merits another drink."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: There wasn't really a plan with this one. It was meant to be a short little thing, a Liam thing. And now it is something I just found myself returning to because it made me happy. But this really is the end. A nice note to end on, I hope.  
**

 **This one is for OnceSnow, who is celebrating a birthday this week and hinted, rather heavily, that this is what she wanted for it.** **Happy Birthday.  
**

 **Part Three - Breakfast**

There were many things that Emma Swan could have been doing with the first morning of her Christmas Break. She could be braving the unwashed hordes of Christmas shoppers in her local mall, scouring the aisles of Bed, Bath and Beyond for the perfect gift for her domestic goddess of a sister-in-law. She could have actually turned up for her morning kickboxing class for once, and shocked the hell out of her instructor. She could have put on her favorite record and danced around in her living room, secure in the knowledge that Walsh had finally cleared the last of his stuff out, and he wouldn't ever be around to look down on her taste in music again.

She could have done any of that.

But instead, somehow, she found herself wedged into one of Granny's vinyl booths, watching on in poorly disguised fascination as the two British men in front of her devoured their All Day Breakfast with the same dogged determination, plates piles high with fried confections. She herself was clutching another coffee, picking at her French toast with her fork.

She'd once eaten like that too. Enough grease to kill a donkey. Back before Walsh had come home one day with a juicer and a couples gym membership, and declared that they were going to Be Healthy. Which wasn't necessarily a bad idea, if he hadn't couched it in what Killian had once termed "the patronizing we". As in, when you go to the Doctor and they ask "How are _we_ feeling today?" in the most condescending way possible. Their direct supervisor at work was famous for it. Similarly, Walsh hadn't really meant _we_. Emma had seen him slipping outside in the morning to go jogging, and smuggling muesli boxes and protein shakes in with the weekly groceries. He had really meant _you._ As in Emma. As in the person who'd been sitting on the couch, eating chips, right up until he'd started delivering his healthy lifestyle spiel.

 _God, why had she stayed with him so long?_ Scrap that, she knew why. He hadn't been a thing like any other guy she'd ever dated. He was stable. He was safe. He wouldn't run. And to his credit, he didn't. But before the end, Emma couldn't deny she kind of wished he would.

Any and all thoughts of the dreaded ex, would have to be put aside however, as she accidentally caught Killian's eye.

Killian Jones. Cocky, self-assured, couldn't-make-a-sandwich-to-save-his-life Killian Jones. And if she was honest with herself, the best and worst thing about her job.

He nudged his plate towards her, and motioned with his fork for her to take what she wanted. _Damn_. He must have caught her staring at his small mountain of bacon a little too longingly. She shook her head, but all he did was nudge it further forward, until Emma let out a long-suffering sigh, and snagged a piece of bacon off his plate with her fingers. It could have been worse, she figured, as she snapped off a piece and popped it into her mouth, savoring the salty goodness. He could have caught her staring at him. Which she did... _sometimes_. He was hot, alright? Walsh or no Walsh, she wasn't _blind._ And he certainly brought a bit of color to the office.

It wasn't like it was a dream job, or anything. But it paid the bills and it didn't compromise her dignity, which Emma thought wasn't too bad for a high school drop-out. But it was boring. _Sweet Jesus_ , was it boring. Filling out spreadsheets for eight hours a day gave her a permanent ache behind her eyes, and vivid fantasies of throwing herself under every bus she saw. And then came along Killian Jones.

She wasn't quite sure how he'd done it, but within a matter of weeks he'd turned an office full of mindless automatons into rule-breaking deviants. He really did have a knack for that kind of thing. Trouble, that is. He was trouble.

It had started innocently enough, with Emma's attention drawn away from the database she was supposed to be building by the tell-tale squeal of the un-oiled joint, as he leaned back in his office chair. She watched as he had cast his eyes from side to side, checking the coast was clear. And then, quick as lightning, he pulled a well sharpened pencil from the tin on his desk, and threw it directly at the ceiling. Where it remained, embedded in the fibrous plasterboard. She was stupefied. They all were. Just.. out of nowhere. Then he lined up a second. Then a third. He made it to ten pencils altogether, with their cubicle mates, who Emma had never seen exchange so much as a greeting in the hallway, handing over their spare pencils without even being asked. That is, until, there had been the telltale clack of designer high heels on linoleum that signaled Regina Mills's imminent return, and everyone who'd paused to watch the bizarre spectacle froze, save for Killian himself, who'd hastily thrown his jacket at the ceiling, all ten pencils raining down onto his desk with a clatter just a moment before she stepped through the door, eyes peeled for any wrongdoing. And what was Killian doing? Why, he was just tidying his work space. No harm, no foul.

From there, things had degenerated fairly quickly. Soon everyone was in on it. And the feats became more daring, using more and more office supplies spirited from the supply closet. Emma had been the one who'd jimmied the lock with an old library card. Soon there was a set of rules laid down. Points were awarded depending on level of creativity, amount of supplies used, and level of risk of Regina walking in at any moment. If you managed to do something whilst she was in the room, everyone chipped in and got you a cake.

It was strange, for sure. Childish, even. But it made work a little less awful, and her coworkers a little more human, and therein lay the appeal. It was also how she'd come to know Killian, outside of his laughably bad innuendos and apparent inability to rollerblade. When he was in the middle of a feat, he was single-minded to the point of recklessness, but he always pulled it off in the end, no matter the odds. Hell, there had been a two week stretch when there had been Black Forest Gateau at lunch every day, he was just that good.

* * *

None of which explained why she'd kissed him in the bar last night. Her memories were still a little hazy, as they always were after any contact with tequila, but certain things were coming back to her. Like that text she'd gotten from Walsh, whilst Killian had been in the bathroom.

 **Slipped key under the door.**

 **Have a nice life.**

Most people would be sad after severing ties with their boyfriend of five years. And maybe she had been, sort of. But more than that, Emma felt relieved. Unshackled. _Free_.

No more protein shakes, no more 5am jogs, no more listening to Rod Stewart through headphones because Walsh didn't approve of any artist who'd ever garnered enough of a fan base to actually make money from their music. If you'd heard of them, he didn't want to know. No more talk of babies and marriage like they were inevitable, rather than conscious choices Emma wasn't sure if she was ready to make. No more pretentious antiques turning up in _her_ apartment in the place of her beloved, if mismatched, secondhand furniture.

No more pretending that she wasn't attracted to Killian Jones, and his unique brand of mischief.

She hadn't meant to kiss him. But she was heady with her new-found freedom, and after that first tequila slammer, the burn still warm in her throat, she'd found herself watching in rapt fascination as he'd licked his spilled drink from his lips. And suddenly she wanted to know what it tasted like. What his lips tasted like. And so she'd gone for it.

The rest was a little blurrier. There had been some more making out outside, near a dumpster? More tequila. Something fruity. Killian's blue eyes, shining. She didn't recall the cab incident at all, and she thanked her lucky stars for that.

But now here she was, in Granny's, having been lured into being the unwitting third wheel of an awkward Jones Family Reunion with the promise of French toast, and she couldn't even stomach the idea of all that maple syrup.

* * *

Liam was the first to finish inhaling his breakfast, not even a stray crumb left on his plate.

"Are you going to eat that?" he asked Emma, indicating her almost untouched french toast. Wordlessly, she slid it over to him, and his face split into a wide grin.

"I like this one, Killy," he said, motioning at Emma with his fork.

Beside him, she saw the younger Jones brother slouch down further into the booth, the tips of his ears going pink. "Please don't call me that," she heard him plead under his breath. Even with a mouthful of toast, Liam's grin widened.

"So, Emma," he purred, once he'd swallowed down his first mouthful, "May I call you Emma?" Emma nodded warily, watching that gleam settle in his eyes, so much like Killian's whenever Regina announced she was taking an extended lunch. "Would you like a tale from this one's youth? I've got loads. How about the time we went sailing and he got tangled up in the-"

"I will literally pay you to stop talking," came Killian's strangled words beside him. He looked flushed, and stressed in a way Emma had never seen him. He'd always seen so calm in the office, so collected. Even when they'd woken up, he hadn't been like this. _Ah._ So this was his Achilles heel. The brother, and the ghost of those awkward teenager years. It was sort of endearing, in a way. To see him so off-kilter.

"Will you _really_?" Liam turned to his brother with interest, his next piece of toast raised to his mouth, their eyes locking.

Without breaking eye contact, Killian fished his wallet from his pocket, reached inside, and pulled out a handful of notes, plunking them down hard on the table in front of them. They held each other's gaze for another long moment, before Liam turned his attention to his ill-gotten gains.

"Aye," he said flicking through the wad of cash in his hand with a self-satisfied smile. "This will do quite nicely. See you at your apartment later?" Killian merely nodded, and to Emma's surprise, Liam took one last forkful of food and rose from the table, leaning across to reach for Emma's hand. "It was truly a pleasure to meet you at last, Emma. Cheers for the French toast. It was excellent." Then he'd brushed a kiss across her knuckles and was gone, the chime above the door signalling his departure.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence, Killian's eyes set firmly on the salt shaker in front of him.

"At last?" Emma asked finally.

Instead of answering her, Killian seemed to crumple in front of her, his forehead coming to lean on the table in front of him. "Fucking wanker," she thought he heard him mutter, between the sound of his head thumping against the table a few times. Before Emma could come up with anything comforting to say, he shot back upright again, slightly more composed, a tell-tale red mark coloring his forehead.

"Shall I walk you home?" he asked. And Emma, eager to leave the whole weird breakfast vibe behind them, agreed.

* * *

They'd walked two blocks before anyone said anything. It was Killian this time, reaching out to grip Emma's elbow, bringing her to a halt on the sidewalk beside him, right by a dilapidated pizzeria, the red awning out front torn, flapping furiously in the frigid December wind.

"I know how to make a sandwich," he blurted, his eyes screwed shut with the weight of his confession. Emma stifled her impulse to giggle, he looked so tortured.

"I was beginning to suspect you did..." Emma replied, her voice light. "What with that fancy ass kitchen you've got..."

Realizing he was being teased, Killian's eyes popped open again, fast filling with frustration. "No, that's not what I meant." He shook his head, as if he could physically shake the words loose.

"No," he said, taking a small step towards her, "I mean, I _like_ you. I've liked you since I met you. And the sandwich thing, it was just an excuse, to be near you." His eyes widened. "Not in like a _creepy_ way. I know you had a boyfriend. I just mean..." He was rambling now, and he knew it, breaking off abruptly to jam his hands in the pockets of his coat, gaining his breath back.

Emma however, was still stuck on his words.

 _I like you. I've liked you since I met you._

Well, that explained a lot.

"...At last?" Emma repeated, things beginning to click.

She heard Killian curse under his breath. " _Bloody traitor._ My brother is a nosy prat, but he's also my best mate. He's been well aware of my... little infatuation for some time now. And a great amount of amusement it brings him, too."

"Yeah," Emma said with a small smile, crossing her arms in front of her in a vain attempt to counter the cold, "I caught that."

A little comforted by her smile, Killian returned a tiny one of his own, one gloved hand coming up to scratch behind his ear. "If you don't mind me asking, exactly how much of last night _do_ you remember, Swan?" he asked.

"Well..." Emma's eyes were drawn to the ground as she considered the fragments of the night she'd managed to piece together. "Well, there was the tequila. And the margaritas..." she began, but she found her thoughts drawn to the more memorable aspects of the evening. His little "oof" of surprise when she'd kissed him, before his arms had slid around her waist and he'd kissed her back. The way he'd looked as he'd pulled away, eyes still closed, a stunned expression on his face like he'd just been hit over the head with a frying pan.

"Anything _not_ beverage related?" He replied, in a perfect imitation of her earlier words, and Emma fought to contain her eye roll.

"It was me. I started it," she said, throwing up her hands in defeat. She knew he'd just wanted her to admit it. But when she glanced back up to his face, he wasn't wearing the smug grin she expected.

He shook his head. "Do you remember what you said outside?" he asked, his accent more pronounced than normal. She cast her mind back further. Outside. There had been a dumpster. A *gulp* wall. Oh. _Oh._ The realization must have shown on her face, because Killian's eyebrows raised in that annoyingly attractive way they did. "And?" he prompted, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, eyes fixed on Emma's.

Killian Jones. Cocky, self-assured Killian Jones, stood waiting on the sidewalk like a man awaiting sentencing.

"I think it wouldn't be the worst idea in the world."

The smile that takes over his face is blinding in its intensity, and when they kiss this time, he tastes like bacon, and coffee, and something a long time in the making.


End file.
